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CariatCettm 



BY 



Illustrated by 
2ella Bey Mains 




1 it 

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NOV 8 !3?»f j 

_0fj’iT!uli! EWrv ! 

M/S /pm 

OUSS 4 XXct, No, 
^PY □. 


Cop 3 ^righted, 1907, by 
Myra E. McDermott-Stevexson 


APOLOGY. 


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frrb for tljr brnrfit of mg rombog 
frtrnbo. anb to rrrall ttfr olb bago. ml|rn 
.ilibrral mao tljr rnb of tlyr railroab anb 
tl|r brgitttttttg of tifr morlb. 

"Arizotta.** 




BARKIS ON THE RANGE/' 



A BARKIS ON THE RANGE. 


His Lively Response to a “Matrimonial” 
Advertisement. 

A Kansas City girl who put a “matri- 
moniar’ advertisement in The Star is 
probably still wondering over the fol- 
lowing letter, which reached her a 
few days later : 

'‘Liberal, Kas., Oct. 29. — My Dear 
Young Woman : I had just finished 
rounding up the market reports in 
The Star to-day, when I caught your 
brand in the personal column, and as 
Lm just about the swiftest thing that 
comes down the pike, I made up my 
mind right away that you’re just the 
maverick I want to get my rope on; 
so if you want to be queen of my 
heart and eighteen hundred head of 
the best white-faced cattle in this neck 
of the woods, just send the old man a 
line, and we’ll be running our herd on 


6 


LARIAT LETTERS. 



6 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


the same range qnicker’n a bucking 
broncho can pitch a cowboy into the 
middle of next week. 

“Before you put your sig. onto that 
letter you’re a-going to write me, just 
tell me all about yourself, whether 
you’re a straight blueblood or just a 
common dogie, and if you ride a leap- 
ing horn saddle or have got onto that 
new-fangled way some of the city 
girls have of riding clothespin fashion, 
I wouldn’t object, exactly, if you do 
ride that-a-way, but if you’d just as 
soon not. I’ll get you the best buck- 
skin side-saddle in the market, with 
lots of gingerbread on the tapideros 
and silver jingle-bobs all over it. 

“If you want to know anything 
about me, just write to Kilgore & 
Hays, Liberal, and if they don’t tell 
you I’m a straight fellow and have 
the best ranch in the Panhandle and 
can ride the meanest broncho and rope 


LARIAT LETTERS 



LARIAT LETTERS, 


more steers than any fellow on the 
range, I’ll eat my sombrero, — and it’s 
a hand-made Mexican one, that weighs 
eight potmds and cost fourteen dollars. 

“Hope you won’t get on the prod 
at this letter, for I never was much 
at slinging words and always fought 
shy of the girls, and as I never wrote 
a love-letter in my life and never sign 
anything but checks, you’ll have to 
counter-brand anything you don’t like 
in this letter. I am a-goin’ to send 
my face along with this, so you can 
see what kind of a looker I am, and 
hope it’ll suit you. Return the comp., 
can’t you? 

“Well, I’ll have to rope off or some 
fellow will be shooting holes in me for 
runnin’ on his range. Hope to get that 
letter by next mail. Yours — if you’ll 
have me — .” 


Arizona. 


A COW-PUNCHER IN KANSAS 
CITY. 

(As told by himself.) 

“Talk about your being lonesome,’' 
said Sport Porter as he came on second 
guard the other night, when we were 
holding the cattle in Rattlesnake 
Canon, “the lonesomest place I ever 
struck in my life was in a big hotel in 
Kansas City. No, it wasn’t before it 
was opened up, either. The d — d 
thing was in full blast, but as for being 
lonesome, — ^well, it could give a dog 
town in the west end cards and spades 
and be ahead at the end of the game. 
You see it was this way : I went down 
there with a train-load of yearlin’s, 
and hit the town Monday morning. 
Now you all know I never was in a 
town bigger’n Amarillo before, and 
when I struck that hullabaloo of K. C., 
U. S. A., as I hear it called, I knew 


10 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


right away that a knock-kneed dogie 
calf in a herd of two thousand thorough- 
breds was a king bee compared to your 
humble servant mixed up with that 
city herd. I drifted arotmd awhile, 
afraid to ask any questions, for fear 
I’d run up against a confidence man, 
for I’d heard all about their smooth 
game with just such mavericks as me, 
and I didn’t intend to get roped in on 
no such graft if I could help it. I 
had a pretty big roll with me, too, so 
I thought I’d go to a bang-up hotel 
where I would feel safer than in a 
cheap corral. Well, I found a police- 
man — a star-brand fellow — and asked 
him about it, and he sent me to a 
hotel called the Midland; said it was 
one of the best in the city. I said 
that was what I wanted. I fotmd 
the place all right, sailed in trying to 
look wise, and the next thing I knew 
them damned high-heeled boots of mine 


11 


LARIAT LETTERS 



“them high-heeled boots of mine slid out 

FROM UNDER ME AND I CAME DOWN ON THAT 
BLAMED MARBLE FLOOR.” 


12 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


slid out from under me and I came 
down on that blamed marble "floor and 
saw stars and nigger porters in brass- 
band clothes all mixed up for about 
half a minute. I got up out of that 
some way, though, and a coon helped 
me find the desk where you have to 
put down your brand and range, so 
if you blow out the gas and kick the 
bucket they can write to the old folks 
about it. They asked me if I wanted 
a room, and I said I did, and another 
coon took me up in one of them flyin' 
machines called an elevator, for about 
a thousand feet, and showed me^into 
a room big enough to rope a steer in 
and furnished like a parlor, and left me 
there. Well, I sat down, and there I 
sat. I never was as lonesome in all 
my life. I got up and looked out the 
window, and I know it was a mile to 
the groimd. The floors up there were 
all padded like the inside of an insane 


13 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


asylum, and you couldn’t hear people 
hoofing it in the halls. I would have 
been glad right then to have heard a 
coyote howl. Finally I decided to go 
downstairs, but I didn’t want to be 
dropped down in a velvet-lined box 
like I came up in, so I thought I’d 
sneak out and find the stairs, for there 
must be some somewhere. I know 
I chased myself aroimd ten miles of 
hall carpet before I give it up and 
thought I’d go back to my room, and 
then I walked another ten looking for 
that blamed room, and I never did 
find it. They all looked as much 
alike as a lot of soapweeds on a Kan- 
sas flat, and I was certainly up against 
it tmtil I ran onto a room with the 
door open, and saw a girl in there 
making beds. I fished out a dollar 
and handed it to her and said, ‘That 
plunk’s yours, yoimg woman, if you’ll 
kindly show me the stairs of this she- 


14 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


bang,* and she grinned and towed me 
around one or two blocks of hall, and 
showed me a stairs wide enough to 
drive a herd of bronchos down. Well, 
I went down, and down, and down 
for about an hour, and finally came to 
what I supposed was the bottom. 
At least I didn’t see any more stairs, 
but I didn’t see much of anything 
else either, but some swinging doors, 
so I made a go for one of them, and 
darned if I didn’t bring up in the 
kitchen or some such place, and all 
the coons in Kansas City must have 
been right there, and they made a 
stampede straight for me. I guess 
they thought I was some kind of a 
freak. I guess I wasn’t much else, 
either. Well, I got out of that place, 
fell down on some more tombstone 
floor, saw some more doors and made 
a break for them, and found I was in 
the bar-room. I took a Texas straight, 


16 


LARIAT LETTERS 



16 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


to act like I knew where I was at, 
went out on the other side, milled 
around some more looking for a way 
out, found a big glass door, went in, 
and fotmd myself in the bar-room 
again. I drank another straight, al- 
though I didn’t want to get even a 
little bit locoed, for I was bad enough 
off sober, and got out again into an 
entirely different part of the house, -or 
so it seemed to me. I hurried aroimd 
there, for I was getting hungry and 
wanted to find the chuck-room, went 
through the first door I came to, and 
ran up against that bar again. I know 
that bar-room had five hundred doors 
to it, and every hall in the house 
seemed to lead to one of them. The 
W. C. T. U. really ought to take it 
up. I bought loco pot, which I didn’t 
drink, and asked the barkeeper if he 
could tell me where the dining-room 
was. I showed him a coin and he 


17 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


called a boy with more band clothes 
on, and had him show me the way, 
and darned if that dining-room wasn’t 
at the very top of the house. A coon 
at the door reached out and grabbed 
my sombrero before I could say ‘Jack 
Robinson’ and hung it on a peg back 
• of him. I never said a word to him, 

but to myself I said, ‘Good-bye, hat," 
for I thought sure that would be the 
last of that $14 lid of mine, and it was 
a real hand-made Mexican, too, and 
had a rattlesnake band with 14 rattles 
on it around the crown. You could 
have corralled all the cattle in the Pan- 
handle in that dining-room and had 
room to bum. An off-color nigger in 
a bob-tailed coat showed me to a table, 
and another coon who was almost a 
whiteface came up with a card with a 
lot of lingo on it that I couldn’t make 
out a word of, folded his arms and 
stood there like a prairie-dog on his 


18 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


hole. I looked at that card and then 
at the nigger, hauled out a half and 
said, 'Now you know what I want to 
eat. Just bring it in,’ and he did, and 
I’ll say right here that was a bang-up 
dinner and no mistake, and if ever 
you’re riding the chuck line in Kansas 
City you know where to go. 

After I had fed my face all I wanted 
to, I drifted out again, — and what do 
you think ? If that nigger didn’t give 
me MY OWN hat! It’s a nice place 
all right, but I never got onto the 
ropes there, and it always took a nig- 
ger to get me cut out from every herd 
I got into, and I was blamed near 
broke when I got off that range. I 
believe I do better on native pasture.*' 


It 


A COW-PUNCHER AT A BULL 
FIGHT. 

City of Mexico, Sunday night. — 
Dear Bill: — ^Jake took a fool notion 
to gallop down here and spend Sun- 
day, so we loaded into a Mexican Cen- 
tral train and landed here at noon to- 
day. We didn’t know exactly what 
to do to kill time, but we learned there 
was to be the biggest bull fight of the 
season this afternoon. So we decided 
to take it in. Well, the bull-pen looked 
like a one-ring circus, only the seats 
go all around and are closer and higher 
and there’s a mighty tight fence around 
the corral where the bulls do their 
turn. We got there early and it was 
fun to watch the people coming in 
droves like hungry calves after a feed- 
wagon. I’ll tell you there were lots 
of thoroughbreds in the bunch, too — 
and dress! Say, they all looked as 
20 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


if it was their day off, and had on more 
jinglebobs and fixin’s than I ever saw 
before. The women are good lookers, 
too, if they do paint their faces up 
like Apaches on the warpath. 

Pretty soon a band came out in the 
corral and played “Good Morning, 
Carrie,** and the whitefaces all yelled 
themselves hoarse. Old man Diaz and 
his party were chucked into a kind of 
pigeonhole with red curtains around 
it up at the top of the seats on one 
side, and everybody let out a yell 
when he showed up. He came to the 
front of his box and bowed a few lines, 
and then things began to happen. 
First a big gate in the pen opposite 
the old man’s grandstand opened up 
and a fellow on the prettiest horse 
you ever saw came riding out. That 
horse had on more clothes than any 
bronk I ever saw, and they seemed to 
be mostly big satin and velvet flappy 


21 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


things with gold lace all over them. 
The fellow on him looked like the 
ringmaster in a circus. He made that 
horse walk mostly on its hind legs 
clear across the corral, and then 
stopped just below the old man and 
took off his hat and bowed and made 
the horse bow, and then he made a 
speech which meant in English that 
if it was all right with the old man 
the next thing on the programme 
would be something else, and if he 
would cough up the key to the bull- 
pen things would happen “poco 
tiempo.’' The old man said it was 
“Muy buen,’' and threw down the key 
About twenty brass bands broke 
loose at once, and after a little cheer- 
ing the gates were opened again and 
the whole outfit came in and milled 
around a little while to show off. 
There were the three chief guys who 
do the killing and about a dozen 


22 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


‘‘Caballeros” in fancy togs with red 
capes over their arms and a lot of 
common fellows who do the clean-up 
act after a killing, and six mules with 
satin covers and gold-mounted har- 
ness hitched to a kind of drag. A 
dozen or so fellows on horses and armed 
with overgrown prod-poles came in, 
too. The crowd threw another fit, 
and the gang all went out except the^ 
fellows with the bareback-rider clothes 
on, and some horsemen. 

Then the gate on the other side of 
the pen flew open and out came the 
bull, and he was sure a fine animal, 
but too heavy to be much of a sprinter . 
He had a kind of dagger with red and 
blue ribbons tied to it stuck in his 
shoulder and the blood was running 
down. He was sure on the prod. 
He pawed the ground up and bellowed 
like winter thunder. Some of the 
fighters made a few flips with their 


23 


LARIAT LETTERS. 



'*AND OUT CAME THE BULL.’* 


34 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


satin capes, and he sure stampeded 
them in a hurry. Those boys can 
jump a seven-foot fence to beat a 
Texas steer. Finally the bull got his 
eye on one of the horses and made a 
dive for him, and as the horses are 
always blindfolded and broken down 
anyway, they don’t have much show. 
The fellow with the prod-pole makes 
a bluff at keeping the bull off, but I 
noticed he nearly always failed about 
the second time and that bronk’s 
day was over right there. Whenever 
a horse is killed the crowd yells like 
mad, the mules are brought in, drag 
him out, and the next horse has a 
chance — to end his troubles. 

After this has kept up imtil every- 
body from the States is sick of it, the 
old man gives some kind of a signal, 
which means that enough horses have 
been killed to last a spell, and they 
are taken out. The fellows with the 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


* ‘ banderillos ’ ’ have their inning. Each 
man has two sticks each about two 
feet long and covered with paper lace 
and flowers and ribbons and with a 
kind of spike on one end, and he waits 
until the bull gets real mad and makes 
a dive for the cape somewhere. Then 
he runs square at him, and just as 
he reaches him steps to the left a little, 
leans over and throws the spike ends 
of his sticks into the bull’s shoulders 
just back of the head. Then he gives 
them a good dig and makes for the 
fence. If they both stick, the crowd 
yells like mad, and if they don’t they 
give him the horse-laugh. They keep 
this banderillo business up until they 
have eight of them stuck in the bull’s 
shoulders and blood runs down both 
sides to the ground, or until the old 
man gives a sig. to stop. Then every- 
body holds his breath while the mata- 
dor does his turn. 


2ft 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


The fellows with the capes keep 
yelling and waving their rags until 
the bull is too rattled to know whom 
to run at first, and is so out of wind 
by this time that he don’t care much 
anyway. But he makes a few more 
charges and unexpectedly meets the 
matador, who holds a red flag in his 
left hand and a long narrow sword in 
his right, and as he charges, steps to 
the left, leans over and strikes his 
sword in the shoulder just in front of 
the banderillos, and if he is a good 
man, usually sinks it to the handle, 
and the bull is a goner. Then you 
would sure think hades had broken 
loose, for the crowd gets locoed again 
and yells and throws everything loose 
to the man who did the killing. We 
stayed until four bulls and eight 
horses had passed in their checks, and 
left, although the doin’s was just half 
over. 


27 


LARIAT LETTERS. 



sa 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


As a general summing-up of the 
affair, I can only say it’s mighty dan- 
gerous for the horses and fatal for 
the bull, and I’d just like to see them 
fellows fight a little Texas cow that 
had lost her calf. I’ll bet there would 
be more cow than Greaser left when 
the killing came. 

When we get back to the Panhandle 
rU tell you all about our trip. I must 
hike out now and round up Jake be- 
fore some senorita gets her rope on 
him for a maverick. Yours^for U. S. A. 

Arizona. 


/ 


20 


STEERING STEERS IN K. C. 

Hotel Baltimore, 
Kansas City, Mo., Jan. 28,^1902. 

Dear Jack: — The steers came 
through all right and struck a fair 
market, but you'll see all that in The 
Star, so I won’t waste any time tell- 
ing you about it; but I want to give 
you a little spiel about the bang-up 
time Bill and I have had since we 
struck town. After the cattle sold so 
well we made up our minds to go the 
whole thing, and we sure struck the 
proper gait when we landed at this 
hotel, for you can cut a wider swath 
here than in any hash-mill I ever run 
up against before. And cost ! Gee 
whiz! you can make the profits on 
eighteen cars of whitefaces look like 
thirty cents here in less than a week. 
But I’m not kicking — it’s worth every 
dam cent of it. 


30 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


Bill didn’t open his face for exactly 
fourteen minutes after we broke in 
here, and then he gave the kind of a 
look a bad steer gives you just after 
he has* been throwed the first time, 
and whispered: “Say, Arizona, have 
I died and gone to heaven, or is this 
a hotel?” You see we had gone to 
this particular house because it’s named 
after the city Bill’s mother came from 
back East, but you wouldn’t think it 
to look at Bill, now, would you? He 
don’t look exactly like a Maryland 
product, does he ? 

We struck our first snag when the 
kid who seemed to me to be dressed 
mostly in buttons steered us up to a 
sort of bank counter with a lot of post- 
office boxes on the wall back of it, 
and delivered us to a 200-pound fel- 
low, who looked like he might own 
the X I T Ranch and Armour’s pack- 
ing-house and never miss the change. 


31 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


ti 



DRESSED MOSTLY IN BRASS BUTTONS 


a 


32 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


Well, this fellow — ^for he turned out 
to be a good fellow all right — pushed a 
big brand-book towards us, dipped a 
pen in the ink and handed it first to 
Bill, who turned kinder pale and looked 
at me in a kind of up-against-it way 
until I gave him a dig in the ribs with 
my elbow, when he sort o’ tumbled, 
and then he turned to that book, and 
I’ll be darned if he didn’t write in let- 
ters you could read the length of a 
lariat-rope, “Bronco Bill, Chuck Line 
Ranch, Oklahoma.” I followed suit 
with my Sunday name, 
which I hardly knew 
myself, when it was 
done, and then the fel- 
low whirled the book 
round, looked a little 
while at Bill’s brand, 
coughed once or twice, and said 
politely : 

“American or European?” 



33 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


“Liberal, Kan., U. S. A., and we 
want the best rooms in the house.’' 

I snorted, for I didn’t much like 
being taken for a: blamed foreigner of 
some kind, and the fellow took a couple 
of keys, turned them and us over to 
another button sign, and off we went, 
up the elevator a few floors (we didn’t 
break loose then, thank the Lord), 
and into a parlor (think of that, will 
you), with a bedroom on each side 
and two dipping-pens with big china 
dishes to waller in, and more win- 
dows and things than I ever saw be- 
fore. The bimks looked like they 
were solid gold, and I half wished I’d 
bought my hot roll along when it 
came to bimkin’, for I felt like I had 
laid down on the cat in the hammock 
when I got into it that night. But 
I soon got used to the swing of the 
thing, and dreamed I was ridin’ “Sky 
Scraper” to the moon, when I went 


34 


LARIAT LETTERS, 



dead. The kid was pretty nice about 
puttin’ us on to the bell signals 
and silver hydrants and such 
jingle-bobs, so Bill loosened up 
a dollar and threw to him as he 
left, with the remark: “Here, 
kid, get you some more but- 
tons,” and the grin he sent back 
was worth it. 

We didn’t have any more trouble 
till chuck-time, (dinner was so late 
that day that they didn’t have any 
supper, I noticed. I guess the cook 
must have been on the prod,) and 
then another plunk had the waiter — 
he was a regular polangus, no off color 
about him — coming our way, and we 
roped in all the chuck we wanted 
without having to read the darned 
French program, which was all Choc- 
taw to me. That was a square meal 
all right, I tell you, and worth all it 
cost. After it was over we wandered 


85 


LARIAT LETTERS. 



36 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


down into the cellar, where they have 
the swellest bar you ever saw, and 
sampled a few fancy slings that made 
me feel like a bucking broncho after 
an oat feed. 

That night we drifted into a play- 
house and saw a few things that made 
our eyes stick out ; but I can’t tell you 
all about that now. When we get back 
on our own range I’ll give you the 
whole thing. 

I must round up the market now 
and see if the train of calves is in. If 
we stay here much longer I won’t be 
able to cut out Bill from that hotel 
herd at all, he’s getting so stuck on 
the brand and the whole ranch. Yours 
till branding-time, Arizona. 


37 


4’’-v i. 



n 


THE BRAVEST AND TRUEST LITTLE PARTNER ON EARTH. 


88 



THE COWMAN’S IDEAL GIRL. 

y 

He Describes Her in Detail, and in Terms to Suit. 

A preacher at Liberal, Kas., down 
in the short - grass country, recently 
preached a sermon on “The Ideal 
Youn^ Woman,’’ and asked the young 
men of the community to furnish 
short written descriptions of their con- 
ceptions of the I, “Ideal.” The fol- 
lowing letter is one that did not ap- 
pear on the programme. {K, C. Star.) 
' “My ideal young woman is a native. 
She is a well-graded one, too, but no^ 
a thoroughbred — they take too much 
care and are not good rustlers when 
range is short. She is pretty enough 
to make' some honest cowman lose 
his heart to her and make her queen 
of his herd, if she’ll have him, but she 
isn’t such a looker that every chuck- 
line riding cow-puncher in the country 
will want to hang aroimd the old man’s 


so 


LARIAT LETTERS, 


ranch till he’s fired. She may not 
have been raised in the saddle, but 
she knows enough to tell a latigo strap 
from a branding-iron, and is the kind 
of a girl that can get on a good broncho 
and hold the cut-out herd in a round- 
up when your extra cowboy goes back 
on you at the last minute. She’s got 
all the book-learning she needs, but 
she doesn’t go aroimd talking dead 
languages while the biscuits bum, nor 
let the chickens scratch up a good 
garden while she makes experiments 
in botany. She knows how to talk, 
and does a good deal of it, but you 
don’t have to put a jerk-line on her to 
get in a spiel yourself sometimes. She 
doesn’t g6t locoed at the sight of a 
cook-stove, and can give an old-time 
camp cook tips on sour doughs. It 
don’t take lariats and hobbles to keep 
her at home part of the time, and she 
don’t get on the prod every time any- 


40 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


thing goes wrong on the ranch. She 
dresses as well as she can put up for, 
but she don’t blow in every cent she 
can get hold of for jingle-bobs and 
other fixings, and she don’t spend 
two hours, when somebody is in a 
hurry to get started somewhere, doing 
her hair up to look like a water spaniel 
that’s been through a cactus patch. 
In fact, she’s all right, and we love 
her, and look up to her, and lose our 
hearts to her and let her make any old 
kind of fools of us, and we put in our 
lives making money for her to spend 
— and we’re glad to do it. She is our 
own home-grown girl, and we are 
proud of her and wouldn’t exchange 
for any other kind on earth. She 
helps us enjoy life when we can, and 
when the other kind of times come she 
is the bravest and truest little part- 
ner on earth, and we reverence her 
more than ever. More than that, 


41 


LARIAT LETTERS. 


she’s right here, and we don’t have to 
go off our own range to find just the 
one we want. Every cowboy in the 
country knows just where to find one 
that tops the market in all these 
points — and may his claim never be 
contested! Yoms for Western girls,” 


.Arizona. 




42 












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